Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
But it’s high time we had a real talk and decided how to move forward with Dad. Things need to change. If rehab works and Dad’s able to start working again—amazing. If not, we have to deal with the reality that maybe we aren’t doing what’s best for him by continuing to make it so easy for him to flush his life down the toilet.
“All right, fine,” Cathy says, shaking her head as she lifts both hands in surrender. “I’ll take him straight there. But can I at least grab him some fast food on the way? I’m sure he’s starving after spending the day in the drunk tank.”
“Sure,” I say. “That would be nice, and I’m sure he’d appreciate it.” I nod toward her cell. “Why don’t you tell him you’ll be there in thirty minutes? And I’ll call the center and tell them to expect you in about an hour. I’ll send you a link to the location. It’s only about twenty minutes outside of Bangor, between here and Sea Breeze.”
“All right, and you’ll take care of everything here?” Cathy asks, glancing around at the rest of the family, most of whom are pretending to be on their phones.
In reality, of course, they’re shamelessly eavesdropping, a fact Uncle Murray proves by saying, “Go take care of Leon, we can take care of ourselves, Cathy. We aren’t retarded.”
“You shouldn’t say that, Dad,” my cousin Steven pipes up. “It’s insensitive to disabled people.”
Uncle Murray grunts as he makes a show of looking around the room. “So? There aren’t any retarded people around to hear me. That’s what I was just saying, that we aren’t retarded.”
Cousin Steven rolls his eyes to the ceiling, muttering beneath his breath in what I suspect is a prayer for strength.
“Or maybe I got it wrong,” Murray continues. “You always were a little soft in the head. That’s probably why you’re so concerned about what words people are using, while I’m the one actually down at the rec center volunteering to teach the retards how to fish.”
“Oh, my fucking God,” Steven mutters, rising from his chair and making a beeline my way.
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Great Aunt Sue croaks from the sofa where she seemed to be asleep until a hot second ago.
“You want to get out of here? Take a walk or something?” Steven asks.
“Or you two can be the first to see Grandpa,” his brother, Seth, says from the doorway, a big grin on his face. “The nurse said he’s ready for his first visitors and we can go in two at a time until he gets tired.”
“Yes, please,” I say, my heart leaping as I grab the bag with my gift in it from a nearby table. “I’m dying to see him.”
The rest of the family calls out for us to tell Gramps how happy we are that’s he’s okay—just in case he’s too tired to see all of us in person—and Steven and I head toward the entrance to the intensive care unit.
As soon as we’re clear of the waiting room, Steven asks in a soft voice, “So what’s up with you and Weaver Tripp?”
I cut a surprised glance his way.
“Cathy was saying something to Aunt Sue about March women having a weakness for Weaver Tripp,” he adds, answering my unspoken question.
“March” women. So, I’m a Sullivan when they need me to toe the line for the clan, but a “March,” my mother’s maiden name, as soon as I do something Cathy isn’t happy about?
Good to know.
Meanwhile, I haven’t talked to my mother in well over a decade and never met the March side of my family, aside from sweet Grammy March who passed when I was in kindergarten.
“Cathy’s a menace,” I mutter.
“Oh, for sure,” Steven agrees, “but she’s not wrong about Weaver Tripp. He’s dangerous.”
I sigh. “He’s not, Steven. I…I know him. He’s actually a pretty great guy.”
Steven grunts. “Yeah? Tell that to Chris. Cops just showed up at his place to arrest him for aggravated criminal mischief for getting on Weaver’s bad side.”
I grind to a halt several feet from the intensive care unit, causing two nurses behind us to trip over themselves to avoid stepping on the backs of our feet.
“Sorry,” I apologize to them as I grab Steven’s shirt and tug him toward the railing overlooking the atrium. “So sorry.”
Once they’ve moved on with irritated assurances that “it’s fine,” I turn back to my cousin and hiss, “What? How is that even possible? What did he do?”
“He didn’t do anything,” Steven says, running a hand over his close-cropped brown hair. “Mark invited him to party on the yacht, so he and Stella went. But apparently, Mark’s not allowed to use the yacht anymore. I guess Weaver got it in the will after Mark’s dad died or whatever.”